


fireworks and burning fields

by hiraethseok



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, First Kiss, Fourth of July, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, Requited Love, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethseok/pseuds/hiraethseok
Summary: The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but Dean’s all too happy to watch Sam instead.or, Dean pines while he and Sam sneak away to celebrate the Fourth of July
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 83





	fireworks and burning fields

**Author's Note:**

> samdean fourth of july trope ily
> 
> enjoy!!

The fireworks are Sam's idea, but it's Dean who sneaks off down the street to buy them. 

Thankfully, he’s saved up enough from his vague internship in Indiana to be able to afford it. Slipping them past Sammy sets itself up to be a harder task, but by the time he gets back to the motel room, Sam’s bent over his biology textbook, snoring softly. 

He takes a second to marvel over his luck. Then, he picks him up and puts him to bed, tucking the blanket up around his shoulders and whispering a quiet, “Night Sammy,” in his ear before getting into bed himself. 

The fireworks are Sam's idea, but Dean's the one to painstakingly plan the evening out to the T.

Dean gets him to wear a blindfold the entire way there. Sam asks over and over if they’re there yet, or how far they have left to go, but Dean just shushes him and drives. 

"You're gonna love it," is all Dean tells him, and Sam's excitement crescendos. 

He's nearly vibrating by the time they pull up in the empty field. Dean gets out first, rounding the car to reach Sam's side and help him out. Sam's got a mean grip on his forearm, whether out of anxiety or anticipation Dean doesn't know, but then he unties the blindfold and finally gives Sam his sight back. 

He doesn’t react for a long time. Dean’s joy falters a little, and his smile starts to fade, but then Sam turns, eyes wide and awed, to Dean and asks, "What's this?"

Dean grins sharp around the giddy feeling in his chest. He tugs Sam along, stands them in front of the trunk, and when he pops it open, he watches Sam's face the entire time. He looks stunned, disbelieving when his eyes meet color rather than the sleek neutrals of weaponry, and then he's looking up at Dean with this soft, fragile expression on his face that make Dean’s happiness quiver for an entirely different reason. 

“You did this?” Words clog up in his throat, so Dean just nods, watches as Sam goes from appreciative to excited between one blink and the next. 

“C’mon!” he laughs, grabbing Dean’s hand and the plastic bag with the boxes of fireworks. Dean lets himself be pulled. He curls his fingers tight around Sam’s and laughs too. 

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but Dean’s the one who’s enjoying them the most. Not the fireworks, no, it’s the _look_ they put on Sammy’s face; that curious, childlike life that lights up in his eyes almost as much as the fireworks do across the sky. 

“Look, De! Look how pretty it is!” He’s breathing to the tempo of Dean’s heartbeat, nose pointed up at the stars, cheeks painted in blues and greens and yellows. 

“They’re beautiful,” Dean says, not looking at the sky at all. 

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but Dean’s all too happy to watch Sam enjoy them. 

He’s a picture-perfect silhouette against the pale grass, too-big jeans slung low around his hips, faded t-shirt tugged down so many times they have stretch marks, and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost imagine they’re not brothers right now; that he doesn’t have a duty to protect Sammy with his life, that he doesn’t have to hold himself back so hard it hurts. 

If he screws his eyes shut tight, he can feel the phantom press of Sam’s lips against his, can hear Sam whispering all the things Dean dreams about in the blackest hours of night. 

Someone collides into his chest, and Dean’s eyes fly open as he takes a few stumbling steps back to regain his balance. His hands are quick to wrap around Sam when he realizes it’s him.

“Dad would never let us do anything like this,” Sam says, voice muffled against his shirt. He looks up, right at Dean, and he’s smiling bright enough to rival the slumbering sun. “Thanks, Dean. This is great.”

Dean clutches at the back of Sam’s shirt and laughs, shivering as he presses a kiss to Sam’s temple, hating himself for wanting so much more. 

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but the field burning down isn’t Dean’s. He doesn’t even notice the crackling until the smoke hits his nostrils. He stiffens, glancing around the clearing in search of a creature and finding a smouldering fire instead. 

His hand shoots out, grabs Sam’s shoulder, pulls him close to his body, and Dean shouldn’t be this entranced by the licking flames, shouldn’t be staring down the barrel of this gun that’s so effortlessly torn his family apart. 

“The field,” Dean breathes, and Sam looks. Fingers lace tight through his own, and then Sam is running, nearly snapping Dean’s arm clean from his body. Dean stumbles and follows him, lets Sam lead them out of harm’s way, ending up at the Impala because neither of them know anything safer.

They’re both panting, gripping the car’s sleek hood with sweaty fingertips, leaving behind marks that Dean will spend the morning carefully buffing out. 

Sam’s laughter suddenly echoes in the still air and Dean startles, thinks he must be hearing things. He turns to look, chest still heaving, hands still shaking from the rush of adrenaline, but Sam really _is_ laughing, head thrown back, eyes affixed to the glowing moon above them. 

“What’s so funny?” Dean asks, dazed. Sam’s jaw stands out sharp, shadows dancing across the soft planes of his cheeks, the point of his nose. His eyes have decided to be green tonight, like they wanted to match his own, and Sam’s smiling like he’s finally gone crazy. 

“Not funny,” he says, and that shouldn’t clarify anything, but it does. 

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but it’s Sam’s fault that they end up kissing. 

The fire’s still raging in front of them, eating up the grass and the plastic bags and the empty boxes of cardboard, and Sam watches them burn. Dean’s looking at the fire in the reflection of Sam’s eyes, in the barely-there flush of his cheeks. It’s warmer than it used to be, and Dean can’t tell if it’s just him or the fire or some mix of the two.

“Thank you.” The spell breaks. 

“For what?” 

“Everything. This whole thing. It was perfect.”

Words run through Dean’s mind; words he can’t ever say, words that could burn whatever’s between them as fast as the fire on that field. The need to say them is still there, heavy in his gut, and it’s almost enough to break him when Sam leans across and hugs him tight.

“Sam,” he whispers, warning, pleading, and Sam digs himself into Dean a little harder. Dean’s shaking in Sam’s arms, and he goes ice-cold at the idea that Sam somehow knows, that he’s aware of this twisting, writhing side of Dean he wishes he could be sickened by.

Sam’s so close, so damn close, and Dean’s rapidly losing his grip on control.

“It was _perfect_ ,” Sam repeats, pulling back to meet Dean’s eyes, and then he’s dipping his head into Dean’s space and breathing softly, hot puffs of air washing over Dean’s lips.

“ _Sammy_.” No longer a warning, just a plea. Sam exhales and kisses him slow.

It feels like fireworks, Sam’s lips against his, branding heat right against the space no longer between them, and Dean’s dizzy with overdose, with too-much-too-little and satisfaction flickering past his grasp like licking flames. He makes a noise in his throat, something weak and whining and hurt, and Sam soothes the sting with his tongue, coaxing him open, pushing into him, and Dean’s so full of Sam, full of his smell, of his taste, of his touch, and it’s achingly perfect when Sam pulls away first, licking across his lips like he’s trying to savor the flavor of their sin.

“Sam,” Dean says, like his entire vocabulary has been severed at the root, like this one word is the most important one he will ever utter, and maybe it is, maybe this swirling, painful lurch in his gut is the sole emotion he’ll feel for the rest of eternity, and Dean is completely, stupidly fucked because he doesn’t care as long as Sam’s there to make him feel it. 

Sam smiles, pretty and tarnished and so fucking beautiful, green eyes shuffling between every hue Dean can imagine, lost so deep in him that he startles when the fire behind them crackles angrily. Sam laughs, sounding like a wind chime.

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but slipping into the same bed still smelling of smoke and pink-cheeked from kissing is all Dean’s. Sam tries to protest at first, saying that they’d wake up with their nostrils stuffed with the scent of ash, that they could at least shower first, but Dean’s exhausted and his skin feels too tight, too sensitive, and maybe Sam can see that because he doesn’t put up as much of a fight as he usually does. 

They’re curled up beside each other when Sam leans in and kisses his cheek, soft and unhurried, and Dean twists his neck and catches his lips again, hungry, starving, desperate for this one touch, this one assurance that they’re somehow still alright.

This time, it’s Dean who pulls away first, lips choked red and eyes glowing. Sam grins, nudges himself a little closer, and it’s oddly comforting, the smell of smoke on his clothes, like evidence that it really happened, that it really was Sam who kissed him, that it really was Sam who tore him to pieces and carefully glued him back together like a messy, mismatched puzzle. Dean still feels fluttery and far-away when Sam loops an arm over his waist, fanning his fingers out across his spine as if to say _I’m here_ or _I’ll protect you._

“Goodnight, De,” Sam whispers, and it’s not _I love you,_ but Dean doesn’t need to hear it. Sam’s gaze bores through him and Dean understands. He smiles.

“Night, Sammy.”

They fall asleep as tangled up in each other as they actually are, limbs interlocked in some intricate pattern that nobody but the other can decipher. Dean slips into slumber right after Sam does, and he drifts off to the sound of Sam’s soft snores puffing against his neck. He wakes up with an armful of baby brother, and this time when the guilt rears its ugly head, Dean just kisses Sam until the blood rushes in his ears and drowns it out. Sam’s a little dazed when Dean lets him go, recesses of sleep still clinging to his drooping eyes and sluggish body. When Sam quirks his head in a clear question, Dean just grins.

“Been waiting to do that for way too long.” Sam’s confusion vanishes like melting frost, and his soft acceptance feels sunny when it’s directed at him and him alone. 

“Me too.” Dean licks his lips. The admission tastes sweet. 

The fireworks are Sam’s idea, but the frequent kisses, the casual touching, these little consequences that end up with Dean half out of his mind and Sam halfway to undoing his belt buckle for him, yeah.

That’s Dean’s cross to bear.

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos make my day!! :DD


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